


Loss

by LiraDonne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Johnlock, Minor Violence, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraDonne/pseuds/LiraDonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can see (and predict) almost anything, but one lapse in knowledge almost takes away the most important thing in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Brief, minor violent scene. Not enough to warrant an archive warning, but proceed with caution if that's a trigger for you.
> 
> This started as a drabble and just sort of grew. I don't have a Beta or Britpicker, so feel free to tell me about any errors.

Sherlock Holmes had foreseen every possible way that their plan could go wrong. He had accounted for the possibility that their suspect (Joshua Frost, 37, ex-Marine, wife just left him) might have backup. He considered every possible weapon that Frost and his cronies could possibly have access to, his most likely plans of defense upon discovering that he was being pursued, and a wide variety of directions in which the men could have decided to run. Sherlock even correctly predicted which location they’d used to set up base (abandoned warehouse, docks by the Thames, less than a mile from the last murder site), and he smiled to himself at the thought that he’d given Lestrade the correct address.

He had _not_ , however, accounted for the presence of a child.

John had suspected as much when they arrived at the warehouse and John noticed the eight-year-old boy cowering against the wall, but Sherlock was always so sure of himself and now wasn’t the time to make fun of him, so he had kept his mouth shut. Before he had sufficient time to think the matter over, he was knocked out by the butt of a gun, having obediently dropped his own weapon at the Frost’s first threat to the frightened child in question.

When Sherlock had rushed forward to help his beloved doctor, he was seized by Frost’s three heavily-muscled friends and was forced to watch, helpless, as Frost mercilessly beat John senseless in the presence of his own terrified, newly-motherless child. Sherlock could not be proud of himself for noticing that Frost and the child shared the same brown eyes and jet-black hair; while knowing of their relation might come in handy later, he was already horrified that his lapse in foresight had allowed John to be unconscious on the floor, unable to defend himself against the blows being directed at him.

Sherlock’s face was full of fury as he pulled strongly against the men who held him, kicking and screaming and yelling threats like they were the only words he knew. He watched in horror as John’s skin broke apart, blood leaking weakly from his wounds as if his very veins had resigned themselves to their fate. He fought and tried not to listen too closely to John’s ribs breaking and already-battered flesh being pounded, forcing screams from Sherlock as loud as John’s would have been if he’d had the consciousness required to speak.

It took an agonizing eight minutes and forty-seven seconds for Lestrade and the rest of his incompetent team to find the warehouse and shoot all four suspects in their arms or legs—enough to disarm and disable without killing them, before pulling the child safely away and into police custody. It took another seven minutes and twenty seconds for the ambulance to arrive and offer John medical support.

By that time, Sherlock Holmes was a broken man. He was speechless, unable to yell at the paramedics for taking too long. He could only wrap his long, slender fingers tightly around John’s wrist to feel the steady thump of his pulse, reminding himself that nothing bad could happen as long as that heartbeat continued to pump life through John’s veins.

He was vaguely aware that the paramedics were giving John oxygen and an IV, that they were shouting commands at one another, checking various vital levels to get an idea of how badly John was hurt—but to them, John was just a patient. They didn’t know that he was an army doctor, that he’d saved Sherlock’s life more times than either of them could ever count, that he made everything better by merely existing. They didn’t feel Sherlock’s terror when they looked at John’s bruised and bleeding face, didn’t see their own futures disappearing with every weakly ragged breath. They didn’t care. Not really. Not like Sherlock.

Sherlock would have to care in their place. He wouldn’t let the world go on unchanged as a tragedy unfolded in front of his very eyes. Nothing bad would happen to John if Sherlock could care enough. It was all he could do to help, and maybe it wasn’t enough, maybe John still wouldn’t make it, but he was damn well going to try.

The paramedics repeatedly asked Sherlock to move away from John so they could treat him more effectively, but Sherlock didn’t hear them, and he wouldn’t have moved away if he had. John was unconscious, but Sherlock counted his pulse over and over, every minute, like both of their lives depended on it, refusing to take his eyes off of John’s face because he knew, he _knew_ that the moment he looked away, John would leave him, and he wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ let that happen.

He didn’t remember arriving at the hospital. At some point, he knew that John must have been wheeled in, treated, and brought into a hospital room for observation. He was vaguely aware that people were yelling at him, insisting that he let go of John and get out of the way so they could get to the patient. Certainly, they must have mentioned that even family members would not be allowed in the room during emergency treatment like this, and he and John weren’t related or married. Still, their comments hardly entered his consciousness. He may or may not have not-so-gently slapped away the two male doctors who tried to gently pry him off of John. Presumably, Mycroft gave some sort of order to leave him be, because the medical personnel eventually resigned themselves to his presence.

There was nothing anyone could do to take him away from John now. This was all his fault. If he’d forseen their little trick of inviting Frost’s kid along for use as manipulation, then John wouldn’t be here, tattered and beaten and clinging to life. Sherlock was supposed to _know_ these things. It was his job—his _only_ job, a job no one else in the world had—and he’d failed. He would never forgive himself.

“You mustn’t beat yourself up, Sherlock. It’s unbecoming of a man your age.”

“Go away, Mycroft.” He didn’t need this right now. Not when John’s eyes were still closed. Not when Sherlock hadn’t had a chance to apologize. It still wouldn’t be enough, he knew, but it was a start, and he needed John to wake up in order to do it.

“Is that any way to thank the man who allowed you to be here? I could snap my fingers and have you thrown out of this room in an instant.”

Sherlock could hear the smirk from across the room. He didn’t even have to raise his eyes from John’s face to know.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Do you really think so little of me?” Fake surprise. Annoying. “I’ve just come to check up on our favorite army doctor.”

“He’s fine. Go away.”

Mycroft paused, pretending to think. “If John is ‘fine,’ then why haven’t you let go of his hand?”

His hand? Sherlock was just checking John’s pulse. Feeling for the surest sign that John would be okay, that Sherlock’s unpardonable failing hadn’t ruined everything. He reluctantly pulled his eyes from John’s face, just for a moment, and was surprised to see his fingers laced through John’s. He didn’t remember when he’d done that.

“Shortly after they brought you two in here,” said Mycroft, answering Sherlock’s thoughts. “Apparently, you were comforted by being able to hear John’s heartbeat through the beeping of the machines. You’ve been holding his hand ever since.”

Sherlock ignored him, and after a minute, he heard Mycroft walk away.

~

An agonizing six hours and eighteen minutes after they’d arrived at the hospital, Sherlock felt John’s right hand squeeze his own.

“John,” he said. “John, can you hear me?” It took a moment before he realized that his available left hand had, in its affectionate shock, migrated to John’s head and was stroking his hair. He didn’t quite have the strength to will it away, so he let his hand remain there, hoping it might be a source of comfort. Most people seemed to like that sort of thing.

“Sherl—Sherlock,” said John, his voice hoarse and weak from lack of use and the various drugs running through his system. His forehead wrinkled and his eyes opened, taking a moment to focus before he found Sherlock’s face.

“John.” The name came out in a hushed whisper. Sherlock wanted to say so much. He had to apologize for being so stupid, for leading John into danger (again), for not waiting for Lestrade before running after murderers. He wanted to ask John if he was okay, how much pain he was in, whether he needed more pain medication, and how mad he was at Sherlock for failing him. There were so many words behind his lips, but the only one that came out was “John.”

John frowned as his eyes spotted the bags under Sherlock’s eyes and the worry manifesting itself in small wrinkles all over his face. “Sherlock, have you even eaten? What time is it? You should be sleeping.”

Sherlock immediately turned defensive and forced himself to pull his hand from John’s hair, but still clung to his hand. “Don’t be stupid.” John would know better than to take it as an insult.

Sure enough, John ignored him, pressing on as if no one had spoken. He wasn’t used to the worry etched across Sherlock’s face and wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

“I’m _fine_ , Sherlock.” The words came out slower and softer than usual, his voice cracking in places, but he was adamant. “It was just . . . just a little fight, really, I’m fine. I assume Lestrade caught up and took them into custody? Saved the kid? That’s all that matters. I’ll be okay. Look at all these monitors if you don’t believe me. Steady beeping. Don’t have to be a doctor to know that’s a positive sign. You can’t sit here like a grieving widow and just. . . . _God_ , Sherlock.”

“ _Joh_ n.” Sherlock should be upset that John was getting himself worked up, but his heart went out to the man whose initial worry upon regaining consciousness was not for himself but for the flatmate whose inexcusable failures had put him in the hospital in the first place.

“Don’t look at me like that. Don’t go off in your head and start blaming yourself. This is not your fault, Sherlock, and really, I’m _fine_.”

“You have three cracked ribs.”

“I’ve been _shot_ before. This is hardly the worst I’ve been hurt. And they’ve clearly got me on some strong meds right now. I hardly feel a thing.”

Sherlock knew for a fact that he was lying; he’d seen John wince a few times while talking. But he knew it was best not to argue. John was hurt and it was Sherlock’s fault. The least he could do was to let John yell at him a bit.

Still, he easily recalled the terror of watching John fall unconscious.

“You were so still,” Sherlock said simply.

John squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Not anymore.”

Sherlock paused for a moment, struggling. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, and it was one of only a few times in his life that he said the words and meant it. They felt woefully inadequate, but Sherlock didn’t know what else to say.

John didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He just squeezed Sherlock’s hand again and smiled.

~

The doctor came in shortly thereafter and, with only a few muttered complaints about Sherlock being in the way, conducted a checkup. John’s chest was tightly wrapped to ensure that his ribs healed properly, there were stitches on his forehead where the skin had opened up, and the bruises and smaller cuts would heal on their own. There wasn’t much that the doctors could do but wait and make sure that he was healing properly. Miraculously, he didn’t seem to have a concussion and retained full memory of everything that happened before he passed out, so there wasn’t much cause for concern as long as his physical injuries healed nicely. The doctor even said (with more than a hint of relief in his voice at the thought of being rid of Sherlock) that John would be allowed home in a few days.  
Sherlock was not as relaxed. Mrs. Hudson stopped by with sandwiches and cookies for her boys and peppered them both with kisses, so Sherlock didn’t have to leave to eat (though John tried to force bits of his own hospital food down Sherlock’s throat). There was a bathroom in the hospital room, which Sherlock used directly against the hospital’s rules and he ignored normal visiting hours by sleeping in a chair beside John’s bed. John insisted repeatedly that he was _fine_ , that he knew what he was getting himself into when he moved in with Sherlock and that he wasn’t surprised or upset to have taken on a bit of damage as a result, but Sherlock disregarded him.

When John was asleep, Sherlock even turned off his phone to prevent the possible distraction of new cases.

On the third day after the incident which had landed them there, John was getting fidgety. He hated being out of commission, but more than that, he hated being coddled by Sherlock.

“You’ve got to stop this,” he said after Sherlock snapped angrily at a nurse who accidentally made John wince while rearranging his pillows.

“She hurt you,” Sherlock said, pouting.

“She meant well, Sherlock. And I’m alright. It’s just a little pain. Hard to avoid when you’ve got cracked ribs.”

“They’re not even _trying_ , John. This isn’t the first time that those incompetent fools have—”

“No, stop this. You know very well that I’m healing properly and that there will be no long-term damage. A bit of pain is par for the course. You can’t throw a fit every time I wince. That’s not what this is about. That’s not why you’re being more of a pain than usual. You’re still feeling guilty.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to defend himself, but John cut in again.

“Don’t deny it, Sherlock. I’ve been hurt before and you’ve never been like this. I’m a grown man and you’ve got to stop treating me like I’m some fragile . . . thing. None of this was your fault, okay? I put down _my own gun_ to keep them from shooting Frost’s kid. I made myself defenseless. That was my choice, not yours.”

“You didn’t see what I saw. You didn’t see them . . . _crush_ you.”

“No, but I feel it.”

Sherlock winced. “John, I should’ve known they’d. . . . I knew Frost had a kid. I should’ve guessed that they’d bring him along. We should’ve waited for Lestrade to catch up and . . . _John_.”

“You’ve _never_ waited for Lestrade. Always so eager to catch the criminals before anyone can catch on to your brilliant logic. . . . I hardly expect you to start acting rationally _now_. And as brilliant as you are, you can’t know everything. No one would expect an eight-year-old kid to be present at a time like that. Don’t you dare make this your fault, Sherlock. They’re the bad guys, not you.”

“I couldn’t stand it, John. Seeing them hurt you and not being able to stop it. . . . I didn’t even know if you’d be okay. I keep seeing it in my mind, every detail. It’s _unbearable_.” He clutched at John’s hand, wishing he could take all of him in his arms, but knowing that to do so would hurt John’s ribs.

“I know,” said John, gripping Sherlock’s hand in return, not caring that their hands had hardly separated in the time they’d been at the hospital. He used his thumb to stroke Sherlock’s, emanating reassurance. “I know.” The words were simple, inadequate, but they were all John had.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! Please take a moment to leave a comment, if you could. I would really love constructive criticism.


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